We Need the Eggs

I used to have my voice; I wish I could find it again. (When I use the words “my voice” I’m referring to the ability to write coherent and awkwardly eloquent prose.)

The search for my voice began as I imagine most searches throughout history have: with large quantities of food. After a subsequent nap, the search was underway. I checked the following places: under my pillow, the shower, Logan’s desk drawers, the video rental place up the road, within the pages of “The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen, the bottom of a glass of Guinness, under the bridge that spans Wolf Creek…my voice was no where to be found.

I returned to my room out of breath and with a heavy heart. Why couldn’t I find my voice? Why couldn’t I convey my thoughts for my several adoring, loyal fans? Why have I been spending so much of my time gluttonizing life? I turned to Bobby Darin for the answer.

Bobby appeared to me in a vision and sang “Moonriver” – a spectacle that I imagine would even make Joseph Smith weak at the knees. I applauded Bobby and thanked him for lifting my spirits. He then vanished into a flash of brilliant whiteness that knocked me to the ground. I stood up and brushed myself off; his song had inspired me. I, too, have a song in my heart. I, too, sing. I hadn’t lost my voice; it was within me all along. I can write, my voice cried. I can write.

And write I shall. My voice is back, my life is again complete. I'm back folks, because now, more than ever, we need the eggs.